22 Oct The Fate of Martin Finch
“The Fate of Martin Finch”
Written by Jordan Newkirk Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/ACopyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).
🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 13 minutes
Martin Finch leaned back in his worn leather chair, the familiar creak echoing softly in the quiet of his antique shop. At 55, Martin was a man of routine. Every morning, he arrived precisely at eight, unlocking the shop’s heavy wooden door to welcome the day. Nestled in the heart of Seabrook, a small coastal town known for its foggy mornings and friendly faces, Finch’s Antiques was a treasure trove of history and stories untold.
The shop was a reflection of Martin himself—meticulous, organized, yet filled with curiosities. Shelves lined with vintage clocks, faded photographs, and trinkets from bygone eras created a labyrinth of nostalgia. Sunlight filtered through the large front windows, casting a warm glow on dust particles dancing in the air. Martin took pride in his collection, each item handpicked during his weekend excursions to estate sales and auctions.
Despite the contentment his shop brought him, there was a lingering sense of something slipping away. Occasionally, as he polished an old silver candlestick or arranged a set of porcelain dolls, he’d feel time’s relentless march pressing gently against him. But he would shake off the feeling, reminding himself that he was exactly where he wanted to be.
The bell above the door jingled, pulling Martin from his thoughts. Mrs. Eleanor Lockwood stepped inside, her entrance accompanied by a gust of crisp sea air. A reclusive woman in her late seventies, Mrs. Lockwood was a regular visitor, known for her keen interest in items with a touch of the supernatural.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lockwood,” Martin greeted, offering a polite smile.
“Afternoon, Martin,” she replied, her voice as weathered as the leather-bound books she favored. Clutched to her chest was an old journal with a cracked, dark brown leather cover, edges frayed from age. She approached the counter with a purposeful stride.
“I have something for you,” she said, placing the journal before him. “It wants to be kept safe.”
Martin raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “An interesting piece. Where did you come across it?”
She met his gaze with piercing blue eyes. “It found me, and now it needs to be with you.” Her words hung heavy in the air, laden with an unspoken significance that unsettled him.
Before he could inquire further, Mrs. Lockwood turned to leave. “Wait, are you sure you don’t want to keep it?” he called after her.
She paused at the door, offering a faint smile. “Some things are meant to be passed on.” With that, she stepped out into the misty afternoon, leaving Martin alone with the enigmatic journal.
He stared at the book, a sense of unease creeping in. The leather was cool to the touch, and despite its aged appearance, it exuded an odd energy. Shaking off the discomfort, he placed the journal on a shelf behind the counter, deciding to examine it later. After all, curiosities like this were part of his trade.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Martin attended to a few customers and cataloged new inventory, and by closing time, the strange encounter had nearly slipped his mind. Locking up, he tucked the journal under his arm, intending to examine it at home. As he stepped into the cool evening air, a distant foghorn sounded, and the first hints of twilight painted the sky. Unbeknownst to Martin, the ordinary fabric of his life was beginning to unravel.
* * * * * *
Settling into his favorite armchair by the fireplace, Martin placed a cup of chamomile tea on the side table and retrieved the journal from his satchel. The house was quiet except for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock—a comforting sound that had lulled him to sleep on restless nights. Tonight, however, curiosity kept fatigue at bay.
He ran his fingers over the journal’s cover, tracing the intricate, faded patterns embossed into the leather. Opening it, he was surprised to find the pages blank, save for the first one. There, written in elegant, flowing script, was an entry dated two days from now:
“Eleanor Lockwood, age 78, will suffer a fatal fall on her garden steps at 6:15 p.m.”
Martin frowned, reading the line twice. A chill prickled the back of his neck. It had to be some kind of joke—perhaps Mrs. Lockwood’s peculiar sense of humor. Yet, the gravity of the words unsettled him.
“Odd,” he muttered, sipping his tea. He considered calling her but realized he didn’t have her number; their interactions had always been confined to the shop. Dismissing the unease, he reasoned that perhaps it was an old journal she used for story ideas or musings—a coincidence at best.
Closing the book, he set it on the table and turned his attention to the evening news. Stories of distant events flickered across the screen, but his thoughts kept returning to the journal. The possibility of it being a prank crossed his mind, but Mrs. Lockwood didn’t seem the type.
“You’re overthinking,” he told himself. Deciding to retire for the night, he left the journal downstairs and headed to bed, determined not to let fanciful notions disturb his sleep.
The next two days were routine. Martin opened the shop, assisted customers, and attended an estate auction where he acquired a set of vintage maritime instruments. The incident with the journal began to fade, overshadowed by the demands of daily life.
On the third day, as he arranged the new items in the shop, the bell above the door chimed. It was Mrs. Thompson, a local resident known for her love of gossip.
“Have you heard the news about poor Mrs. Lockwood?” she asked, her eyes wide with concern.
Martin felt a knot tighten in his stomach. “No, I haven’t. Is everything alright?”
Mrs. Thompson sighed dramatically. “She had a terrible fall yesterday evening—tripped on her garden steps. They say she didn’t make it.”
He stared at her, the weight of her words sinking in. “What time did it happen?”
“Around six-fifteen, I believe,” she replied. “Such a tragedy.”
Martin’s mind raced. The exact date and time from the journal. His rationality grappled with the coincidence, searching for an explanation. “That’s… very unfortunate,” he managed to say.
After Mrs. Thompson left, he closed the shop temporarily, the usual calm of his demeanor replaced by a brewing storm of confusion. Back at home, he retrieved the journal with trembling hands. Flipping to the first page, the entry remained unchanged. No new writings, no clues.
“Just a coincidence,” he whispered, though doubt gnawed at him. Deciding to test his theory, he examined the remaining pages—still blank. Perhaps the journal wasn’t as mysterious as it seemed.
Attempting to shake off the disquiet, he spent the evening reading and tried to focus on anything but the journal. Yet, an unease settled over him, like an unseen fog creeping into his thoughts.
That night, sleep eluded Martin. Dreams of endless blank pages and unseen hands determining destinies kept him tossing and turning. When dawn broke, he resigned himself to the sleepless night, hoping that the new day would bring clarity.
Little did he know, the journal’s hold on his life was just beginning to tighten.
* * * * * *
Over the next several days, Martin’s initial discomfort over Mrs. Lockwood’s death gave way to an intense curiosity about the journal. He tried to push it from his mind, to bury himself in the daily rituals of cataloging and arranging his shop’s collection, but each night, he felt an irresistible pull to open the journal, as if it were beckoning him. The mundane sounds of his life—the ticking clock, the occasional honk of a distant car—felt muted, drowned out by the journal’s presence.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and shadows lengthened across his sitting room, Martin succumbed to the temptation. He picked up the journal, flipping past Mrs. Lockwood’s entry to see if anything else had appeared. Sure enough, a new entry lay waiting on the next page. His heart thudded as he read:
“Jonathan Powell, age 34, will break his leg at the corner of Maple and 5th, tomorrow at 2:03 p.m.”
Martin recognized the name—Jonathan was a young man who worked at the local hardware store. Though he considered not checking, an idea planted itself in Martin’s mind, a dark seed of curiosity he couldn’t shake: what if he could witness the prediction happening?
The next afternoon, he left his shop early, making his way to Maple and 5th. He loitered near the corner, trying to appear casual. Glancing at his watch, he noted the time: 2:02 p.m. A chill ran up his spine as he spotted Jonathan approaching from down the street, chatting with a friend, oblivious to Martin’s scrutiny.
At exactly 2:03, Jonathan’s foot caught on an uneven patch of sidewalk. He stumbled, twisting his ankle and collapsing with a cry of pain. His friend knelt to help, as bystanders crowded around. Martin stood frozen, heart pounding, stunned by what he’d just witnessed. Every detail matched the journal’s prediction.
He returned to the shop, shaken but electrified. The journal was more than coincidence. It knew things, events yet to happen. He tried to share his findings with Eli, a friend he occasionally met for a drink at the local bar. Eli, ever the skeptic, laughed it off, calling Martin “too superstitious for his own good.”
But Martin persisted, mentioning the journal’s earlier prediction of Mrs. Lockwood’s death, and now Jonathan’s accident. Eli’s laughter faded, replaced by a curious glint in his eye. “Alright, if it’s real, let’s see what it says about me,” he challenged.
Martin hesitated, but agreed to check the journal. That night, he flipped through its pages, and there it was—an entry foretelling a fire at Eli’s bar the next night. Martin’s stomach twisted, but he called Eli and warned him, telling him to take precautions.
The next evening, Martin sat in his shop, waiting, restless. At 9:00 p.m., his phone buzzed—a message from Eli. “You were right. Small fire in the storage room. Caught it in time. You really weren’t kidding about that book.”
Martin exhaled, part relief, part dread. Eli’s message confirmed what he feared: this journal was no mere object. It had knowledge beyond reason, events waiting to unfold, truths carved in ink. Though Eli urged him to destroy the journal, Martin couldn’t bring himself to do it. There was something darkly compelling about holding that kind of power.
He started checking the journal nightly, scanning each new entry. Sometimes it recorded minor events, harmless accidents or small achievements of people around town, each detail etched into reality the next day. Other times, it chronicled tragedies—an elderly man’s heart attack, a child’s broken arm, a fire in a nearby apartment.
Martin couldn’t deny that the journal was taking a toll on him. Sleep came fitfully, his days haunted by the weight of others’ fates. Yet, he was drawn to it, compelled by the promise of hidden knowledge, an addiction he couldn’t quit. It was as if he’d become a voyeur of destiny, witnessing life unfold exactly as it was written.
* * * * * *
The journal’s predictions took on an ominous tone over the following weeks, depicting increasingly tragic and violent events. Martin grew more isolated, his focus on the journal turning into a full-blown obsession. As he poured over its entries each night, he was no longer reading out of mere curiosity. It was as if the journal had become part of him, a necessary evil he could not put down.
One evening, he opened the journal to find an entry more disturbing than any before:
“Sarah Jenkins, age 17, will be assaulted by an unknown assailant behind the old library at 10:14 p.m. tomorrow.”
Martin’s heart raced as he read the words, feeling a mixture of horror and helplessness. He recognized Sarah—she was a quiet girl, often seen reading in her spare time. The thought of such a young, innocent life disrupted by violence filled him with dread. Yet, the same question circled his mind: was it possible for him to intervene, or would his interference mean nothing?
The next day, Martin felt compelled to do something. He tried calling the Jenkins family, awkwardly suggesting that they keep Sarah close to home. But they dismissed him, politely laughing off his concern. His words felt hollow even to him—how could he explain that a journal of strange prophecies had forewarned him of something terrible?
That night, Martin’s restlessness reached a fever pitch. He found himself wandering the streets, his gaze drawn toward the old library. He kept glancing at his watch—10:05, 10:10. The minutes ticked by painfully slow. Then, just as the clock struck 10:14, he heard a muffled scream.
Rushing toward the noise, he spotted a figure darting away, melting into the shadows. Sarah lay huddled by the wall, shaken but alive. Martin knelt beside her, helping her up and calling for help. The journal had been right again, yet his actions had changed nothing. He’d arrived too late to stop it.
Back at home, Martin’s mind was a whirlwind of guilt and confusion. Did his knowledge mean anything if he couldn’t prevent what the journal foretold? His heart ached, an ever-present tightness settling in his chest, but he ignored it, attributing the discomfort to anxiety and lack of sleep. Night after night, he kept reading, hoping to make sense of the journal’s power, trying to keep the despair at bay.
The entries became even darker: deaths in the community, violent accidents, even suicides. Each page became a struggle to read, yet Martin couldn’t stop. By now, he was carrying a deep-seated tension in his body, his chest tight, his breathing shallow. Yet, he brushed it off as stress, convincing himself it was all due to the journal’s burdens.
One night, after a particularly grim entry about a car crash that took the lives of an entire family, Martin stared at his own reflection in the mirror, noting the hollow eyes, the pallor of his skin. The journal had drawn him in, piece by piece, until he barely recognized himself.
Unable to sleep, he picked up the journal once more, hoping to find something, anything, that would grant him peace. As he flipped to a new page, a chill swept over him.
His own name was written in neat script at the top.
Martin’s hands shook as he read the words: “Martin Finch, age 55, will die at 9:47 p.m., alone at the pier.”
A wave of nausea hit him, and he slammed the book shut, as though by closing it he could erase the words. But they lingered in his mind, unshakable. He clutched at his chest, feeling a dull ache that he tried to dismiss as mere panic. His pulse raced, his breath shallow as he tried to reason with himself.
“No,” he whispered, willing himself to stay calm. He would avoid the pier, avoid that hour, and defy what was written.
But the journal had been right about everything else.
* * * * * *
Martin spent the next days haunted by his own entry in the journal, those stark words replaying endlessly in his mind: “Martin Finch, age 55, will die at 9:47 p.m., alone at the pier.” His heart pounded every time he thought about it, a dull ache settling deep in his chest. He told himself it was just panic, his body reacting to fear, but each time he closed his eyes, he felt the faint squeeze of pressure beneath his ribs.
Determined to resist his fate, he threw himself into his routines, trying to reclaim a sense of normalcy. He would avoid the pier, he told himself. Avoid that night, that hour. The journal’s predictions might seem unbreakable, but this one would be different. He would stay in his house, surrounded by light, fighting the darkness that seemed to encroach with each passing hour.
He didn’t touch the journal. Instead, he hid it away in the back room of his shop, beneath a stack of forgotten books, hoping that out of sight meant out of mind. Still, the date drew nearer, and with it, the sensation that something was irrevocably shifting. His symptoms intensified—shortness of breath, a tingling that moved up his arm, and a fatigue that weighed heavily on him, as though the journal’s curse were eating away at him from within.
Eli tried to reach out, sensing Martin’s distance, but Martin rebuffed him. He had nothing left to say that would make sense to anyone. The journal’s grip on his life had become something only he could understand. He found himself drifting through each day in a fog, barely aware of the people around him, their voices muted, his focus narrowing down to that one night, that one prediction.
Then, the day arrived. Martin woke with a sense of finality, an awareness of time that felt almost oppressive, ticking down with every heartbeat. He spent the day trying to distract himself, moving through his shop in a daze, his mind a tangle of defiance and resignation. By late afternoon, he knew he had to confront it somehow. He couldn’t shake the feeling that hiding away wouldn’t make a difference—that the journal’s prediction was as certain as the tides rolling in each night.
As evening fell, Martin found himself drawn toward the pier, his body moving almost of its own accord. The dull pain in his chest sharpened as he walked, but he pressed on, his breaths shallow, his thoughts clouded. The pier loomed ahead in the dim light, its wooden planks stretching out over the quiet sea, a place of solitude and finality.
* * * * * *
The clock on Martin’s phone read 9:42 as he reached the end of the pier. His chest tightened with each step, and a faint tingling crept up his arm, but he pushed the sensations aside, chalking them up to anxiety. He forced himself to breathe slowly, willing himself to stay calm as he faced the inevitability of the moment.
He looked out over the water, the horizon a dark line against the sky, the silence around him nearly absolute. The town lights glittered faintly in the distance, a reminder of a world that felt far removed from his own. He glanced at his phone again—9:45. Just two minutes remained. Two minutes to defy fate.
Then he saw it—a figure standing a few yards away, partially obscured by shadows. Martin’s heart leapt, pounding in his chest with a sudden, insistent rhythm. He blinked, trying to make out the details, but the figure seemed to shift with the darkness, as if it were both there and not there at once.
A cold realization crept over him, as though he were seeing himself from a distance, caught between life and death. The figure was cloaked, its face hidden, yet somehow, he knew it was familiar. The shape, the posture—it was himself. Or rather, some spectral version of himself, standing there, awaiting his arrival.
Martin’s pulse raced, his breaths coming in shallow, rapid bursts. The pain in his chest intensified, radiating through his arm, but he couldn’t look away. The figure was a manifestation of his own fear, his own obsession. As he stared into the darkness, he saw what he had been unable to admit all along—that he had been running toward this moment, not from it.
He checked his phone one last time. 9:47.
At that exact second, his vision blurred, and the figure seemed to fade, melting back into the shadows as though it had only been a hallucination, a final trick of his mind. A searing pain ripped through his chest, forcing him to stagger. His hand flew to his chest, fingers clutching at his shirt as he gasped, struggling for breath.
He fell to his knees on the pier, the world around him darkening, his thoughts becoming fragments, snatches of memory and sensation. He saw his shop, his home, the journal lying beneath the pile of books, untouched yet hauntingly present. He was aware of the silence around him, a profound stillness that filled the empty spaces, pressing in on him as he took his last shuddering breath.
And then, there was nothing.
* * * * * *
The following day, the residents of Seabrook learned of Martin Finch’s sudden death. Whispers spread through the town—a heart attack, some said, or perhaps a tragic accident at the pier. Eli was among the first to visit Martin’s shop, the loss of his friend casting a shadow over the familiar space. As he wandered through the aisles, he found himself drawn to the back room, the place where Martin often kept the shop’s more obscure artifacts.
There, beneath a stack of dusty books, he found the journal, its leather cover cold and cracked, a quiet presence amidst the clutter. Curious, he flipped through its pages, his brow furrowing as he read entry after entry, each one dated, each one chronicling the lives of people he knew.
Finally, he reached the last page, where Martin’s name was written in that same neat script: “Martin Finch, age 55, will die at 9:47 p.m., alone at the pier.”
Eli’s heart tightened, a chill settling over him. He closed the journal slowly, the weight of its final entry settling over him. Though he was tempted to destroy it, he couldn’t help but feel that the journal was more than a mere object. It had recorded the lives of so many, yet it had not caused their fates—only observed and documented.
As he left the shop, Eli cast one last look at the journal lying on the counter, its pages closed but brimming with secrets. The quiet truth lingered in his mind: the journal had simply foretold what would have happened, whether Martin had known or not. His death had been a natural one, an inevitable end to a life entwined with his own fears.
The journal sat in the darkening shop, silent and waiting, its pages empty once more, ready to mark time for whoever held it next.
🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
Written by Jordan Newkirk Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/A🔔 More stories from author: Jordan Newkirk
Publisher's Notes: N/A Author's Notes: N/AMore Stories from Author Jordan Newkirk:
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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).